Sinking
by Severus' Secretary
Summary: Visited a month into the summer before his sixth year, Harry must choose between one evil or the next. Who said everyone chooses the lesser of said evils? Evil!DeathEater!Harry possible HPTR,HGRW,others undecided.ABANDONED 'cause it sucks.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: Visited a month into the summer before his sixth year, Harry must choose between one evil or the next.Who said everyone chooses the lesser of said evils? Evil!DeathEater!Harry -- possible HPTR,HGRW,others undecided._

_**Sinking**_

A few notes before I start:

1. This is going to be a **dark/evil**, Harry fic. If you don't like that, I suggest you stop here.

2. Do you know what slash is? Good. I'm not quite sure on the pairing, but it's probably going to end up being LVHP//TRHP.

3. I wanna make it clear that I love Dumbles in many ways. Unfortunately, this fic does not. He will be manipulative, cunning, and noncaring at times.

4. I also adore Snape! So although he doesn't have a main role, I'll try and make him as active in it as possible. Oh---and Draco, as well.

5. This fic is M for a reason; there will be violence, language, manipulation, mentions of rape, torture, nude scenes, and many more dark themes. I'll try and put a note at the top if I think it's going to make anyone queasy.

6. _W-wait! _You're saying that _I_ have more money then the royal family of Britain!? Dammit! You suck. Well, guess I don't own Harry Potter, then. Can I atleast keep him for a month? ...a week? ...not even a day? Meanie.

_Edited with thanks to Pox._

**Chapter one: Shared Interests**

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

**H**arry Potter was grieving. A simple concept, really. His godfather---was---was---dead. Sirius was dead! Rationally, ofcourse, he understood what was happening. He wasn't really in denial... and he also knew that he'd get over it eventually, but...

Well... Sirius was dead. Padfoot.

It was the afternoon of July the third that found the 'saviour' of the wizarding world in such distress. He'd been with his relatives for roundabout of a month, the amount of time Headmaster Dumbledore had required of him to 'strengthen the blood wards'. Except... Harry didn't really agree with him on that point. Didn't Voldemort have Harry's own blood running through his veins? How were pathetic nulled wards supposed to help him now?

With a sigh, he found himself glaring at the ceiling of the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive. Why did his life... suck? He didn't deserve this; any of it!

It wasn't his fault that his mother had sacrificed herself(really, why hadn't she just apparated away with him?). It wasn't his fault that Voldemort was after his blood. And it certianly wasn't his fault that he had a fucking gash on his forehead.

So, then, why did the wizarding world seem to decide the burden of killing the most powerful non-senile wizard alive to be his? And if they'd so decided, why did they not believe him when he'd said that the evil bastard was back? Why not believe him until the Dark Lord did the boldest thing he could and showed his ugly face to the Minister himself?

Thump, thump, thump... bang! Inwardly groaning at the injustice of it all, his gaze turned to the doorway, bracing himself.

"_Boy! _There's dishes to be cleaned, food to be made, and a living room to be vacuumed and you lay on your lazy ass---"

Sirius was dead. But, unfortunately, the rest of the world hadn't died as well.

And, so, Harry stood, sulkingly making his way to the door and down the wooden stairs, into a world he knew didn't accept him. A world that only seemed to care about whether or not he'd finished repainting that patch of flaking paint on the side of the garage.

Blimey, Sirius was dead.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking **_

Five days later found a scowling Harry sniffing at the inside cover of the only Dark Arts book he owned. It was titled _Theory And Application: The Dark Arts _by Bartras Black.

Black! Why that name, why now?

But that wasn't what was bugging him, even if it could be a small portion. No, he was staring rather intently on something most would overlood; a quote, to be precise. And it bothered him. Could it be... true? Most undoubtably. It made sense, afterall. Why did it have to make sense?

_If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is a part of yourself. What isn't part of _

_ourselves doesn't disturb us._

_ -Hermann Hesse_

It could really explain a lot about himself, he knew. But was that something he was willing to try to understand? Did he really want to fully comprehend the way his mind clicked? No, not really, he knew. But, still, it could explain just why he hated, erm, just about everyone. _(There were exceptions, ofcourse.)_

Severus Snape. He despised the man, but he'd always known he understood him. Prejudice ran rancid in both. And no matter how differant, abused children could always sniff out one of their own kind.

Dudley Dursley. His cousin. Such a bully--he needed to insult others to make himself feel better.

Bloody Malfoy. He'd insulted his friends, but the Gryffindor knew that wasn't really the issue. They both, well, were admittably arrogant; both knew that they were right and both had set out, unfalliably loyal to their cause, to prove it. Deep inside himself, Harry also considered the fact that it was his own fault they weren't mates.

Petunia Dursley. She was his mother's sister, and yet she didn't care about him. Well, he didn't care about her, either, the bitch.

Dolores Umbitch. She was so, well, _sadistic._ But then again, if that was what he hated, was he, too?

Crabbe and Goyle. They flocked to their own definition of power. But didn't he follow Dumbledore just as blindly?

Percy Weasley. He was so, well, sure that he was right. Always. _Stuck up._

Vernon Dursley. He needed to feel in control: when he wasn't in control, he was lost.

His parents. They'd abandoned him, well, he'd abandoned them, as well. If he looked into the Mirror of Erised he knew he wouldn't be seeing them anymore.

**Voldemort.**

The culmination of his bloody little rant, he supposed. But why did he hate Voldemort? He suppose he hated that he'd ruined his life; but hadn't he gone and done that to the bastard as well? Hadn't he been the one to end the Dark Lord's 'reign of terror'? He suppose if situations were reversed, he'd hate himself, too.

He knew he hated that Tom had been an indirect cause of Sirius' death. But, well, could it be that he more hated the weakness in his own darkened heart? Sirius was a fool. A really nice, caring, lovable fool, but a fool nonetheless. He'd know that Sirius would die eventually of his own stupidity. Why hadn't he originally just distanced himself from the man? It would have saved him a lot of pain...

But, Harry realized, he was forgetting someone. Someone who had done as much damage as good. What about... Dumbledore. He was so... manipulative... and he'd ruined Harry's life more then even Tom Riddle had. Why the hell had he withheld so much important information from everyone around him? Sirius was dead beause of him. Cedric was dead. No one had been forewarned of the prophecy, and for all he knew, his own parent's deaths could have been, in some way, caused by the old, senile wizard.

Muttering darkly about demanding old coots and murdering bastards, Harry slammed the book shut and resolved to get some sleep tonight.

Maybe he wouldn't dream about Sirius. Maybe he'd get a good night's sleep.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

As fate would have it, Harry did not get sleep. He didn't get much of anything, really, as an owl started scratching at his window a few minutes after he'd layed down. A tired limb raised to flick off the bird, but, unfortunately, the motion didn't shoo it off.

It seemed to scrape at the glass louder.

"Alright, alright, I get it! Bloody bird!"

Grudgingly, the fifteen-year-old stood and shuffled over to the window, cracking it open far enough so that the Eagle-Owl had room to flutter inside. Who was writing to him with this proud thing? Not Ron, definately. Nor Hagrid, Remus, or probably Hermione... in fact, come to think of it, he couldn't recognize the loopy, formal scrawl that had written his name on the outside of the letter. Harry untied it, if only out of curiosity.

"For crying out loud, I swear." Backing up, he plopped back down on the edge of his bed, leaning over to light the lamp up. He supposed he'd read it now, before his Uncle upped and burned it, or somethin'. As the warm light filled the room, he turned his attention back to the note. It was short--that he could tell from the outside.

_Dear Harry,_

_It is with the greatest regrets that I write. It has come to my unfortunate attention that your relatives have become rather inadiquate in their duties, and, imploringly, I seek to rectify that. I am coming for you. Be ready._

_Your concerned correspondant, _

_Lord Voldemort_

When Harry looked up minutes later, the owl was gone.

Bloody fate.


	2. Chapter 2

Ahhh, daisies. I was bored and stayed home 'cause I was sick, so... lucky you all. Have another chapter while you're at it.

pouts

Just a bit of drabble, really. Wait another chapter for the story to start speeding up.

And no, I'm almost positive I _still_ am not richer then the Royal Family of Britian. Guess I don't own Harry Potter.

**Chapter Two: Hidden Meanings**

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

What. The. Hell.

Voldemort was coming for him, eh? Coming to fulfill the prophecy. And he'd asked Harry to be ready; oh, well, Harry'd bloody well be ready. Although, he thought rather snidely, it had certianly been nice to have a warning before he died.

He knew, deep inside, that he had no chance at defeating Voldemort; he _knew _it. Especially after being out of touch with magic for a month as opposed to the Dark Lord spouting off '_Crucio!'_ every ten minutes. He didn't have nearly the knowledge that the Dark Lord did, nor the followers, nor the spell repetoire.

And how had Dumbledore told him he'd prevail, again? Out of... _love?_ You know, that thing that no one showed Harry?

Sure, there were Hermione and Ron. But, really, that was more of a best-mate thing. Ron and Hermy were obviously slowly falling head-over-heels for eachother. And amusingly enough to Harry's new-found sadism, they seemed to be the only ones not realizing that the other felt the same way. Hell, even _Longbottom_ had commented on it.

And, ofcourse, there was Sirius. Good ole Sirius. But he was dead, now, wasn't he?

So, Harry realized, he was all alone. Perhaps he was better that way. He had time to send Hedwig to the Order for, help, though, he supposed, but...

Morbidly, Harry asked himself...

...wasn't he allowed to be selfish sometimes, too? Wasn't he allowed to, well... just let it all end? Let old Voldie off him? Wasn't it his right to get knackered of it all? Maybe, just maybe... he could be free of the trials of his life. Be free of the burdens; let other people finish the war.

He'd be... free. And, somehow, that thought appealed to him.

Then he could see Sirius again.

But before that would happen, he'd be waiting. Oh, yes, he would wait. Voldemort had said he'd come--the only person Harry had never heard utter a lie had said he would come. And then it'd all be over.

Harry grinned, in spite of himself, as he dozed off to sleep.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

Unfortunately enough, Harry's plans did not take away his responsibilities concerning the morning, and he was woken as he always was:

"_Boy!_ Get up this instant! Breakfast won't make itself!" Called the shrill voice of his aunt. Groaning, Harry plied his numb limbs off of the bed, and stood, trudging over to the door. Guess he'd have to keep on living, for now...

As Harry started cracking eggs on the side of the pan, a grumpy old lard--er, his uncle--walked into the room and sat down, the poor wooden chair creeking. Ignoring the presence of the Potter boy, Vernon reached onto the table and picked up his daily paper. Apparantly it was interesting enough, as Harry never once got insulted until he'd finally finished cooking the eight eggs--none of which would be his--five pancakes(Dudley had lost five pounds, so, logically, his parents rewarded him by trying to fatten him up again)--and sliced chunks of... grapefruit. Most of which _would_ be his. Lovely.

As Harry worked upon setting the table in silence, Vernon called up the stairs:

"Duddykins! Petunia--the food's ready! Come on down when you're ready!" As soon as he was done inviting his family down, the patriarch Dursley turned his attention to his nephew. "And I'll hear not a peep out of you, today, boy. I'll be taking Dudley to my work today to have him talk to my boss---get him a job on the lower rung for the summer. You'll be doing _exactly_ as your aunt asks, and if I hear word that you didn't..." He trailed off menacingly.

Harry didn't need to ask to know what the implied ending was. He'd heard this tone before.

As his aunt entered the room, Harry looked up. His mother's sister, indeed...

Perhaps before he let Voldie off him he'd have a go at his... 'family'.

They deserved it.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

Coiled in her usual place under the rays of sunlight that entered from the large window on one wall, Nagini hissed pleasantly. Her human had recently returned to the bedchambers she shared with him, and she was pleased. Why wouldn't she be? Her human, her Tom, had seemed so pleased with himself; obviously, something had gone according to plan. Probably something to do with the Lightning-Hatchling.

_"Massster isss content?"_ If snakes could smile, she would be. The light was so warm on her scales. It made her want to doze off on the plush black carpeting.

_"Yesss, Nagini, I am content. Your eggsss are hardening well?"_ Oh. Those things. She supposed she should check up on them, but... she didn't really have to guard them here. None of the humans that visited the manor would dare crush snake eggs, and the other snakes that resided in the area all somewhat revered her. She guessed it was because of her human.

_"They harden healthily. What makesss you happy, Massster? Have your eatersss of death pleasssed you?"_ Voldemort stood in silence for a moment, considering how to explain the happenings to his familiar. As intelligent as she was for a snake, it was difficult, still, to make her understand human emotions. Afterall, how could you explain to a snake that you had to kill your own species for a... cause? They had no such things. They killed for territory, to protect their young, and for food. It was just their nature to not murder.

_"Yesss, they have. The young blonde hatchling will be joining me in two weeksss, along with sssome of the other hatchlingsss. But that isssn't it, dearesst. I'll be going to meet the Lightning-Hatchling come the ssun'ss next rissse."_ Voldemort smiled, slightly, as he lowered himself into the comfortably-cushioned mahogany chair. He could finish reading those papers later; his familiar was far more important to him.

And how beautiful she was, too! Her black scales seemed to shimmer a dark green in the warm lighting that permeated the room, and her gold-faceted slits of eyes spoke the imminent demise of anyone that threatened her. It probably didn't hurt that she was nearly eight feet in length, either.

_"The Lightning-Hatchling?" _Letting out an odd hiss, Nagini conveyed her distaste. _"I still do not underssstand why you mussst contessst landss with him, Massster. Another ssspeaker! He isss a gift upon the world, and to kill one of your own bloodline isss to be an egg-breaker, Massster."_

Despite the criticism, Voldemort smiled. They'd had this conversation before, really, so he didn't feel a need to defend his previous disposition under such scrutiny as that of Nagini's. Besides... he agreed with her.

_"I am no egg-breaker, love, and I do not plan on killing the Lightning-Hatchling. In fact, I hope to bring him back with me."_

_"...you wish to make him your nessst-mate, Massster?"_

_"Perhapsss, Nagini, perhapsss."_

Nagini pondered her human's responce, pleased. If the Lightning-Hatchling returned with her Master, she would not need worry over the safety of the bloodline of Snake-Speakers. Perhaps there was hope yet.

It was at this time, as fate would have it, that a knock resounded through the room, stemming from the deep mahogany of the front door to Voldemort's private rooms. Eyes narrowed in annoyment at this intrusion, but, well, he wasn't busy. He supposed he could handle company. "Enter!" He barked, stanting from his seated position. Who was it, this time? And there had better be a good reason! Not that he'd mind, ofcourse, a good Crucio, but it was an inconven--

"Severus. How pleasant to see you." Voldemort sneered. Well, this asn't as bad as he'd thought. "And what news do you bear, Severus? Dumbledore? Supplies? Has Nott still been bothering you? Come on, speak!"

"Ofcourse, m'Lord." The Potions Master replied silkily, seeking to mend the situation. Inside, though, he was fuming. Eyes remaining upon the ground in reverance, the Death Eater grimaced. "The potion you'd asked for, m'Lord. It has gone smoothly and is simmering for the next three and a half days. It will be ready then, m'Lord."

"...I_ see_." His tone obviously held a hidden threat: Was that _all_ that you'd come to tell me?

Snape braced himself, hoping a Crucio would not come. He just wasn't in the mood for the spasms today. "Dumbledore is suspicious, m'Lord. He is wondering why there have been less attacks."

Something to be considered, Voldemort knew. Perhaps he'd stage a raid two days from the morrow.

"If that is all, Severus, you are dismissed."

"Yes, m'Lord."

_"I ssstill sssay he sssmellss."_ Nagini commented snidely from the side. Voldemort found himself secretly agreeing.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

Albus Dumbledore was not a happy man. There had been less attacks these last few weeks, which, to the rational mind in a sane time, meant that there was a reason. Unfortunately, this was _not _a sane time, and they were at _war._ How he was expected to prepare for something he knew nothing about was completely beyond him. Severus had not been getting as much information recently. Perhaps Voldemort had lost trust in him.

Yes, that was what it was. Ofcourse. The Headmaster found himself scowling at his desk, at a loss for what to do. Harry was still with his relatives, thankfully, in a place where he was kept in tight reign. It'd just make him stronger, anyways.

Tom Riddle had been through much worse. Hadn't Harry realized that? Stupid boy.

A shrill call came from the direction of his familiar, Fawkes. It was soothing, he supposed. Something he probably needed.

Now, he had to think! Where could those Horcruxes be? He'd tracked one of them--the amulet--to a cave along the coastline. Nagini was obviously one. One seventh of his soul was in his body. The ring had been destroyed. What of Hufflepuff's cup? Where was that? That left one other. Ravenclaw's dagger, perhaps? Or could Gryffindor's brooch still be around?

All in all, it was giving him one massive headache.

A familiar voice greeted him from behind: "Oh, just rest, Dumbledore.You've done enough brooding for a life time, you know." Armando Dippet, the Headmaster from when Tom was a student and when he'd been the Transfiguration proffessor.

"You're here to help me, not question me, late Headmaster Dippet." Ironic how they had the same initials, hmm?

Now, perhaps he would focus on Hufflepuff's cup. It was possible the thing could be at tom's deceased father's hou--

"You know, we're also here to offer advice." Dippet pointed out sharply.

" 'I owe my success to having listened respectfully to the very best advice, and then going away and doing the exact opposite.' " Dumbledore intoned snidely as he stood, making his way to his personal bookcase and searching for a particular book.

"Chesterton, I know." the portrait replied. Patronizingly, he replied: "In giving advice, seek to help, not please, your friend.' "

Dumbledore paused, slightly, sighing. Stupid painting. " 'It isn't kind to cultivate a friendship just so one will have an audience.' Solon, by the way."

" 'It is possible to store the mind with a million facts and still be entirely uneducated." Dippet returned, imploringly. " 'Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. Why did the fool of a dead man insist on still troubly him from the grave? He'd do away with that bloody portrait if it was possible. But, still. He was a Dumbledore. and Dumbledores weren't to be out-smarted in conversations of intellect. Besides, he knew more quotes.

" 'To repeat what others have said, requires education; to challenge it, requires brains.' Have a good day, Headmaster Dippet." In a flash of orange robes, dumbledore grabbed the aforementioned book and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning:** Death, slight torture, and betrayal. If you have somehow missed the memo (How!?), whether you like it or not, this WILL be an evil!Harry fic. He WILL kill people. And he, most importantly, WILL join Voldemort.

If you don't like that, please, just leave now. (

**Disclaimer: **I may own the promise ring on my finger but, well, no luck... guess I don't own Harry ( you sure I can't atleast borrow Snape... for the night? )

Yeah. So, the other day, I was reading about my Climax.

Er, I mean, MI Climax.

Dammit, get it straight! Climax, MI. Apparantly, one of the easiest ways to get to Climax, MI, is to get off at Interstate exit 69.

I'm not kidding.

Ahem.

* * *

**Chapter Three: What It Is to Betray**

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

Severus Snape was a generally very unhappy man. He had no qualms with his fellow teachers, and certianly none with his employer. Even if his students hated him, for good reason, none of them would wish him dead.

Right?

Even if he did take off a few too many biased points here or there, it wasn't too bad. He hoped.

Lounging on a plush couch in his small, drab London appartment, he took a sip of his Brandy. He'd finished the potion for his 'Master', one that would depending on the intent of the imbiber, do one of the following: one--Render the body in a state of numb for roughly ten minutes--a very popular use for tattoo parlors, as well as the 'first time' potion for women. Two--reshape the structure of the face to, effectively, hide a person in plain sight. It didn't significantly alter the features, but it was enough. This effect could, if taken with helping potions, last a year or two.

There was one more use, ofcourse, but Severus doubted the Dark Lord wanted a somewhat-difficult potion to brew for the simple purpose of growing hair to a longer length.

He'd been asked to brew two vials-worth, and, well, he had.

Needless to say, that was not the reason for the Potion Master's stress. It was a far more life-threatening matter.

Simply put, the Dark Lord did not know that he was a member of the Order of the Pheonix---sure, he was aware that Severus was in the Headmaster's favor, but as far as he was concerned Snape hadn't been confronted yet about joining.

He was a dead man walking. He knew that the moment the Dark Lord knew of his true allegiances---and it was only a matter of time before he let something slip from his Occumulency shields---he wouldn't be thrown a second glance before he got a well-aimed 'AK' to the chest.

Afterall, there were a current other eighty-two Potions Masters in the world. Surely _one_ could be swayed to the Dark Lord's cause.

Curling up in the warmth of the blanket, Severus Snape took a rather large swig of his brandy.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

The winds weren't too harsh against the tree twigs; but it was a bit crisp out in that late night of July.

There was a cottage, he knew. He'd been there before. It smelled of cinnamon, parsley, and freshly baked bread. Only one person lived there, although he knew, by smell, that another often visited.

But that wasn't the place that he was going. He wasn't quite sure where he was going, in fact. He was never sure---he'd stroll, run, and stalk in the dark, dreary forest. Ofcourse, unlike most forests, you couldn't hear much when the moon shone brightly through the canopy. Sure, owls hooted as they flew overhead.

Deer galloped around in packs of three, four, sometimes five.

Squirrels made those little clicking sounds, that which they normally did, whenever they found that nutt they just _knew_ they could smell.

But, oddly enough, you wouldn't find a single Human for miles around---not a common practice in the area uninhabited by muggles.

Because, oddly enough, the Ministry of Magic made it knowledge open to the public where a Werewolf lived. And Remus Lupin, curled up in a tight ball of silver fur with eyes tinting from black to blue in the moonlight, resented that fact.

He would never be able to find a good job because of it. He'd never be able to, say, get married---to a non 'half-breed' or into a pure-blooded family---because of it. The old laws were quite clear about that. Cuddling closer to his limbs in the brush, the 'half-breed' whimpered.

He'd never be able to get a flat in London, or, say, a small house in the rural areas.

Under the effects of the Wolfsbane potion, remus Lupin was in his right mind. Perhaps. Under the effects of the Wolfsbane potion, though, he was also unable to focus on any other issue, as he always was.

It was, mostly, under these conditions when joining Voldemort and seeing to a change in the way the country was run seemed the most appealing.

_**SinkingSinkingSinking**_

Harry Potter was becoming impatient. It had been two whole days since he'd recieved the letter adorned by the signature of Lord Voldemort. Two days since he'd had that sense of wicked glee clench at his heart.

Two days since, at any given moment, he'd expected his aunt and uncle's front door to fly off his hinges, and the menace of the wizarding world to simply... stroll in.

Tonight was the night. He could feel it. Hedwig was out on her way to Hermione's by now, he knew. Ron had probably already recieved his letter. It had been a nice, pleasant sort of thing. Speaking of Quidditch and how he looked forward to the coming year, that yes, he _was_ feeling better, and no, he _wasn't_ brooding over Sirius' death.

Hermione's letter had been much the same, but in a more conniving sense. Harry knew that if he sounded too happy to her, too cautious, even, that she'd become suspicious. She always had been good at reading his mood. So he'd written a letter about something she could associate with--the trouble he was currently having on Flitwick's essay on the technical aspects of summoning and banishing charms. How he was wondering if they'd be able to meet up later for a trip to Diagon alley--he needed to stock up on potions supplies, withdraw some galleons from his account, and maybe they could stop for some icecream at Floreance's.

All the while, Harry Potter, revered someday-martyr of the Wizarding world, was conniving, just waiting for that red-eyed bastard to stride through his door. Conniving in the things he might say, the way he might act, questioning whether it'd be better to be pelasant or maybe to aggrivate the man and get it all over with.

And then, there was always that hidden, silent voice in the back of his head that he'd began to let speak again: _Revenge._ Who didn't want it at times? And who, possibly, was in a better potion to get it then a certian half-blood teenager?

He could, possibly... join..._no!_

That wasn't the plan, that wasn't what he'd promised himself he'd do---wasn't planning the deaths of his relatives enough? Did he need to betray all of his friends, as well?

Friends that cared. Even if there were those times when it could be questioned, he knew it was true.

Sitting there on the fifth step of the wooden stairs, gaze staring blankly between the banister at the flashing TV, ignoring the shout of disbelief as something or another happened on the show, Harry couldn't bring himself to care.

Couldn't bring himself to care about the show, the death of Sirius---he'd come to just ignore that throbbing hole in his heart---, the bark of the next-door-neighboor's dog, or the loud **_Bang_** that came from his left.

Wait.

The loud bang that'd come from his left.

You know, the direction of the door.

"Why, hello, Harry." Came the slimy, silky voice of the snake-faced dictator. Nagini, wrapped around the man's shoulders, hissed her greeting as well.

Harry blinked, attention having, amazingly, moved from the TV to the Dark Lord who was, currently, stepping over the fallen mahogany door.

Harry grinned. "Tom. I got that letter you'd sent me. How touching."

the two would-be adversaries seemed to search eachother, from the floor-scraping end of Voldemort's robes, the long, black, beautiful snake draped around his neck and shoulders, to the bruised side of Harry's cheek.

_"Massster, I sssmell fat mugglesss."_ Came the effeminate hiss of the lovely thing that was Nagini. If Harry wasn't quite so intimidated by her, he might have been tempted to go over and stroke her, odd enough sensation that it was. _"I think I'll go have a little fun. Get along, Massster, Lightning-Hatchling."_ Slithering down the form of the tall, imposing figure, tongue flicking out and back in, tasting the air, Nagini made her way into the living room, to the direction of Harry's uncle and cousin who were, currently, staring at the Dark Lord in pure horror. (Such as if to say '_Is it possible to look like that?_')

Serpentine eyes glinted in the light as Dudley screeched at the sight of Nagini, and Voldemort, sneering at the seated form of Harry, had his mind working to the end of his limit. The way he saw it, there were several factors swaying the way the boy-who-lived was acting towards him---tht indifferant gaze in his eye, the almost challenging almost-smirk, and the way he simply refused to look afraid.

Harry was looking death into it's face, and challenging it to consume him. Either he'd gone insane, had no intention of putting up a fight, had given into the inevitable... no, that couldn't be it. There wouldn't be that obvious... challenge.

Maybe he wanted to... join him? Ahh, how easy that would make everything.

But, no, Voldemort doubted that. It was almost as if he wanted to die.

Did he?

"I musst appologize for the delay in reaching you, Harry. Ssomething... came up." A grin spread across the Dark Lord's face. "But! Now that we're together, I supposse it's time to become better aquainted. I fear we've never had much time to chat, you see, with all the meager time inbetween one of my little plots and the next. If you would so indulge me, perhaps you'd like to tell me your favorite color? Icecream flavor? What'ss your favorite animal, Harry?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry waited a moment to respond. "Well, you see, Tom, I enjoy long walks in the park, picnics on a beach when the moon's shining, and the way a person's eyes gleam in the light of _'Lumos'._ Now, I'm going to have to ask, since it looks like you aren't about to jump the boat, when you're planning on gettin' around to kill me."

"Oh, dear, I was hoping to stall that for a bit."

"Please don't, Tom."

"Ofcoursse, Harry. Now, have I ever lied to you?"

"Nope. I'd come to that conclusion monthes ago, you realize." Unless you counted those fake visions.

And Harry liked to think of those more as being... misled.

"Asss to be expected. Now, I'm not one for long, unneccessary talks, so I'll assume you can take whatever conclusions you will from that. You _will_ join me, or I _will_ kill you."

Screw the screams of pain stemming from the other room as Harry assumed were caused by Nagini, screw that haunting, silent, imposing voice in the back of his head. Screw Voldemort for being so... upfront about it. Screw Dumbledore for always seeming like a saint that to betray would be to betray God himself---screw his friends for making his heart clench when he thought of turning on them!

And, seriously, screw his parents fro dieing and getting him into this mess!

"I _will, _will I?" Harry asked darkly, not really enjoying being told, even if he knew it in his heart, his two options.

And screw himself for knowing which one he, no matter what he'd been thinking for the past few days, wanted to do. Damn Voldemort for looking so calm!

"Bowing to the inevitable has never really been my thing, you know, Tom. I rather preffer _bending_ it." He didn't want to die. God, he didn't want to die. He could---he could---always join sirius _later_, right? Yeah. See his parents... later. Not now. Not when he was so young, had so much to live for, so many people to---to---get revenge on.

So many people to kill. To make... suffer.

You know, for what they'd done to him, ofcourse. And maybe the muggles, too. He supposed... he could, well, maybe... go with Tom's beliefs. supposed he could accept the 'kill all Muggles' thing. Afterall, none of them had ever tried to help _him._ Not when he'd gone to elementry school with bruises, split lips.

Not when he'd... he'd... not been able to sit for the ache from his ass. No one had helped him.

"Fine. But I have conditions." And they had _better_ be met. Or... or...

"I ssee." Voldemort stated, calculatingly. He would only allow 'conditions'... to an extent. Only if this would be worth it---worth more then the severed head of the boy-who-lived sent by owl to the Minister's office. "Sspeak, boy."

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Harry focused on his feet; you know, not the frantic, stomping-run of his uncle out the other door of the living room and towards the back door.

"One--_you_ are going to train me. If you want me to work for you, do whatever, I want _you_ to teach me." This said, Harry was swallowing a _lot_ of pride, refraining from saying something that could, possibly, get him killed.

A nod. Obviously this was acceptable, and Harry felt relieved. He'd expected it to be, but this was an insane Dark Lord we're talking about. "Two--look, I know if I go through with this, I'm working for _you,_ and all, and I _get_ that your word is 'law'. But... don't make me kill anyone I'm close to if i don't want to. Seriously---I... I don't now if I'd be able to."

Another, slow nod. Acceptable, if unwanted.

"And--I think you'll like this one--I don't want it on my arm. Think I could take it on my face or forehead or something?" A long pause followed this, one that filled the boy-who-lived with slight uncertianity. That is, until he could feel, through his (slightly throbbing) scar, a crazy feeling if glee.

"Very well, Potter. We're leaving--now."

"W-wait. Dumbledore---he'll _know_ when I leave. I haven't left all summer, they'll _know."_

"Ofcourse they'll know. Did you think they wouldn't? Besides, when I introduce you to my Inner Circle, he'll know the extent of things. I know there's a spy, Potter. It matters very little. come along, now. Have you ever done side-along Apparation before?"

It wasn't until later that night, resting upon a marvelously large, comfortable bed that Harry Potter would come to realize that he hadn't, himself, taken care of his relatives. Infact, his aunt hadn't been there, at all. Perhaps he'd... visit them.

Someday.

About the time he'd 'visit' a few... _others._

If his now-employer, former-adversary permitted it, ofcourse. Tom Riddle. the Dark Lord. _His_ Lord.

His... _Master._

It was a disconcerting thought.

* * *

Please, seriously, tell me if I'm moving things too fast. O.o 

The mood of this chapter might've been a bit influenced by the music I was listening to while writing it. :P If you want to get a slight idea, listen to Daniel Powter's 'Had a Bad Day'.

Things to look forward to for next chapter: Daily Prophet clippings, snapshots of Harry's training, Nagini happy, and maybe a little Dumbledore or Snape. )

Beware, I'm going to be making a some monthes, maybe a year or two pass in the next two-four chapters.

_Rate & Review, my lovelies! Smooches!_


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